


somebody's arms to fall into

by neyvenger (jjjat3am)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-11
Updated: 2015-03-11
Packaged: 2018-03-17 10:18:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3525491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jjjat3am/pseuds/neyvenger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Marco moves over to where Auba’s laying, curling up on the empty space on the bed. Auba’s hand comes down to push the blonde strands off his face, tucking them carefully behind Marco’s ear. </i><br/> <br/>  <i>Then, they’re kissing, familiar and unhurried, and the tension in Marco’s back slowly unwinds.</i></p><p>  <i>It’s not like it’s a thing, really, but sometimes he and Auba make out. </i></p><p>or</p><p>Pierreus; a progression</p>
            </blockquote>





	somebody's arms to fall into

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Laura, for her encouragement and for introducing me to this team in the first place. Actually, you know what, no thank you's, you ruined my life.
> 
> I basically wanted Auba and Marco to make out a little. This happened instead.
> 
> This work also has a playlist that you can find [here](http://8tracks.com/jjjanimefan/somebody-s-arms-to-fall-into)

It’s not even like it’s a thing.

 

Marco swipes the keycard, moving through the door after the light turns green. He breathes a sound of relief when it thumps shut behind him and takes off his jacket, rolling his shoulders to dispel some tension from the muscles.

 

He can tell that Auba had already made himself comfortable. He can hear the muted thump of bass coming through computer speakers and there’s a bright puffy jacket half-falling off the hook in the hallway. He toes of his sneakers next to Auba’s Nike Vents and fixes the jacket so it’s hung correctly, absently touching the sleeves to feel the soft material.

 

Marco calls out a greeting, in English; he knows that it makes Auba smile when his tongue curls clumsily around the letters. Marco used to be self-conscious of that, back when Auba first came, scared somehow that the press or his teammates might make fun of him for it. Auba had know next to nothing of German and Marco even less of French, but Marco soon realized that his desire to connect with Auba was bigger than his fear of failure. Now they communicate in a strange mix of English and German (the German phrases Auba actually knows are either football terms or stupid shit Kevin’s taught him), along with a few universal hand gestures, and most of the time they understand each other just fine.

 

He and Auba are pretty much always on the same frequency.

 

Auba looks up when he walks in, offering him a lazy grin from where he’s sprawled on the bed closest to the window. Auba has the TV on too, two women talking about something that Marco can’t hear, because it’s muted. He stops for a moment, squinting at the pair on the screen.

 

 

“Is that Durm’s new girlfriend?” he asks and Auba’s eyes move from him to the TV.

 

“Hell, if I know. Is his new girlfriend a movie star?”

 

“Nah,” Marco grins, stripping off his sweater. “Durm couldn’t pull a movie star.”

 

Auba snorts, shifting on the bed to move the computer to a more comfortable position. He’s wearing a soft cotton T-shirt, much too big and slipping at the collar. Freshly showered, by the looks of it. The smell of his shower gel lingers in the air. Marco realizes he’s staring, and crouches down, pretending to rummage in his suitcase, never mind the fact that his pajamas are always packed on top for easy access. Just like his mama taught him.

 

“You leave me any hot water?” Marco asks, pajamas in hand.

 

“I think it’s pretty hard to use up all the hot water when you’re in a hotel,” Auba says gently, still with a lazy grin.

 

“You haven’t roomed with Mats then. I have no idea what he does in there. Probably meditates.” Marco shuts the door of the bathroom behind him to Auba’s soft chuckles.

 

Mats’ long showers are a long standing joke on the team and the reason why everyone always crowds in the shower before their hapless captain. He hasn’t caught on yet, despite them all gifting him shower gels last Christmas, but he might this year. Marco’s already bought him a bath bomb.

 

The bathroom is still steamy, and Marco pushes the towel on the floor nearer to the shower with his toe. Auba has no concept of a shower curtain and using the shower after him is always an exercise in balance.

 

Marco puts his toiletries on the counter next to Auba’s. They use the same brand of hair gel.

 

He walks out of the bathroom half an hour later, less tense, but still a little keyed up from exhaustion. His hair is damp, but soft now that it’s washed of hair gel. It keeps slipping into his eyes and it’s hard to keep pushing it back with his hands full of clothes, so he just leaves it to flop over, peering at Auba through a curtain of hair.

 

Auba has turned off the TV and the overhead light in the meanwhile, keeping just a light on the nightstand. His computer is still on, but he’s pushed it to a chair at the side of the bed. He watches Marco as he comes in, one arm thrown carelessly over his stomach, the other up behind his head.

 

His eyes look dark in the muted light.

_Oh,_ Marco thinks, as something warm curls in his stomach in response. He’s thrown his clothes on the bed, but he leans down to fold them, darting glances at Auba from the corner of his eye. The sheets rustle as Auba moves, creating some space on the small bed.

 

“Hey,” Auba says quietly. Marco folds up the last of his clothes then stands at the foot of his bed, watching Auba stretch languidly. He looks more like a big cat than a Bundesliga footballer and when he catches Marco staring, he crooks his fingers to motion him closer.

 

Marco moves over to where Auba’s laying, curling up on the empty space on the bed. Auba’s hand comes down to push the blonde strands off his face, tucking them carefully behind Marco’s ear.

 

Then, they’re kissing, familiar and unhurried, and the tension in Marco’s back slowly unwinds.

 

It’s not like it’s a thing, really, but sometimes he and Auba make out.

 

 

*

 

 

Marco doesn’t know when it started, not really.

 

Auba came in the summer, along with Miki and Papa. All Marco seems to remember from their first training session together was Auba’s shoes, Nike Airbags with flames embroidered on the sides. Paired with a pair of designer Gucci shades, he’d made Marco’s skinny jeans look positively tame.

 

Of course, he isn’t Auba back then, wouldn’t be until a few days later, when Auba gets tired of their tongues failing to wrap around his last name. “Nobody calls me Pierre,” he’d say. “Call me Auba.” And Auba he stays.

 

It doesn’t seem right, listening to Kloppo talk about an attacking partnership, while Marco’s phone keeps buzzing with messages from Mario. He only manages to reply to half of them, that’s how frequently they come in.

 

Sometimes he wonders, if the Bayern team even has any training, or if they just consider themselves naturally perfect. Mario seemed to have a lot of free time.

 

So Marco put the phone on mute, then stowed it somewhere deep inside his locker, trying to forget about everything that wasn’t Kloppo’s instructions and the unfamiliar presence on the other edge of the field.

 

Turns out, it isn’t that hard. As soon as the drills start, he and Auba just click, like they’d been playing together for years, not a few hours. Auba is fast, much faster than anyone he’s ever played with, and when Marco stops measuring his passes and starts pushing them further upwards instead, he actually starts to hear applause coming from the other parts of the pitch.

 

By the end of training, everyone is in high spirits. Kehli even claps him on the shoulder when he passes by and that always makes him stand up straighter.

 

He’s got five new messages on his phone and Mario has ended the last one with a sequence of sad emoji faces. Across the locker room, Kevin is in the middle of colorfully describing something to Auba in English. There’s a chance that if Marco walks over there now, he won’t understand a thing and make a fool of himself in front of the new guy.

 

It’s not like he wants to impress him or anything.

 

The embroidery on Auba’s boots has little crystals inlayed on it and they flash colorfully in the light. His T-shirt has a design Marco’s been trying to find for weeks.

 

Marco really wants to impress him.

 

He runs his hand over his hair one last time, before putting his phone away and heading over to where Kevin and Auba are talking.

 

Kevin slings his arm over his shoulder when he comes near enough and introduces him to Auba, as if they hadn’t been introduced a few times already. Predictably, the first few minutes are hard to follow, but that’s okay. He’s got a feeling that Auba is only getting about half, at most, because Kevin is speaking very quickly and his vocabulary consists mostly of words you’d hear on American TV shows and not actually in real life.

 

Then, Marco uses a pause in Kevin’s monologue to awkwardly ask about Auba’s shoes and is rendered a bit breathless by the bright smile he gets in return.

 

He doesn’t look at his phone once.

 

It doesn’t start there, but something does.

 

 

*

 

 

Maybe it starts in Münich.

 

Seeing Mario in the hated red still hurts, but it’s more of a twinge than a cut.

 

How could it hurt, when they’ve just won by three goals in the Allianz Arena? The songs from the pocket of their own fans are louder than the entire sea of red. He barely hears Mario over their voices, just claps his shoulder and tells him he’ll call him later.

 

He won’t and he hopes Mario knows that.

 

The team is in high spirits when they get back to the hotel and they go for a pint after, enduring Bavarian beer for the sake of celebration. They’re not strictly allowed to drink after a game, but Kloppo buys the first round, so they take it as a sign that it’s okay to unwind.

 

Luckily, Marco can take his alcohol. The two pints of beer he downs barely register and he’s still pretty clear-headed after the third.

 

Unfortunately, Auba isn’t.

 

Everybody knows Auba is a lightweight and it’s not Marco’s first time witnessing it. It’s still surprising when he ends up with Auba’s head pillowed on his thigh. Auba has been sitting next to him since the start of the evening, but he’d been drifting progressively lower in his seat as the drinks kept coming. Eventually, he’d just sprawled ungracefully on the plush couch and plunked his head on Marco’s lap. And maybe Marco is drunker than he thinks he is, but he really doesn’t mind.

 

While listening to Mats describe the plot of the last movie he’s watched, Marco absently touches the pads of his fingers to Auba’s curls. They’re soft under his hand, gel washed off in the post-match shower. Auba makes a soft noise and settles more comfortably. Marco is really glad that they have a table in front of them, because he doesn’t particularly want to explain to anyone why he’s petting his teammate in the middle of a team party.

 

Granted, it’s not the most scandalous thing any of them have done with a teammate, not even close. They’re an affectionate bunch, and the national team training is even worse. Marco has had his balls fondled so many times, and in so many different positions that it practically registers as a hello at this point.

He’s fairly sure that Auba is drooling a wet patch on his jeans and his chin keeps digging uncomfortably into the side of Marco’s thigh, but the whole thing still feels startlingly intimate.

 

And because Marco is the sober one, it falls to him to get Auba to bed at the end of the night. It’s easier said than done, because Auba clings to him like a limpet, giggling into his neck while Marco tries to get the keycard out of his jeans. Auba is slim, but he’s also tall and as a dead weight he’s hard to carry. Marco is relived when he gets to dump him on the bed.

 

He takes off his shoes and tugs on Auba’s jacket until it comes off. He considers opening the button on his jeans, but that makes him feel weird, so he decides to just leave it, even if Auba’s jeans look almost painted on and surely uncomfortable.

 

Marco steps back, planning to go to the bathroom before he goes to bed for the night, but Auba captures his wrist in a surprisingly strong grip. His fingers are warm and a little bit sweaty, and they make him shiver.

 

“Don’t leave,” Auba says, and Marco doesn’t understand him at first, the words slurred and colored by Auba’s accent. “Stay here, with me.”

 

As he’s talking, his eyes flick down for a moment to focus on Marco’s lips, and that’s certainly a surprise. Something warm curls in the base of Marco’s stomach in response, and that’s an even bigger surprise.

 

“I’m just going to the bathroom,” Marco says, softly, hoping that he won’t have to pry Auba’s fingers off by force.

 

“You’ll be right back?” Auba’s fingers slip from around Marco’s wrist to curl around his hand in a gentle grip. His voice is soft too, almost childlike, his eyes slipping shut of their own volition.

 

“Yeah,” Marco says, gripping Auba’s hand briefly before letting go, “I’ll be right back.”

 

“Okay.”

 

Auba’s eyes slip shut and Marco practically bolts to the bathroom. He remembers to not slam the door behind him, but that’s about all, because when he sees his reflection in the mirror, dark-eyed and flushed, he promptly freaks out.

 

It’s not about Auba being a guy. Marco knows he’s bi, he’s known for years. It’s his choice to keep it on the down low, to go on dates and into back rooms with girls and only girls, even though he’d get guys just as easily.

 

It’s not about Auba being a guy, it’s about him being a teammate. And that’s not going to happen, ever.

 

When he comes out of the bathroom, Auba is already asleep. He’s moved so he’s facing away from Marco, curled up in a ball on his side and snoring softly, probably drooling on his pillow, now that Marco’s pants are unavailable.

 

Marco watches him for a moment, searching for the shape of his spine under the thin T-shirt, before sighing deeply and slipping under the covers of his hotel bed.

 

It takes a while for him to fall asleep.

 

 

 

*

 

 

It doesn’t start in Münich, but maybe it starts in Dortmund.

 

Marco misses training; nothing major, just his knee, worn already and much too prone to giving him trouble. The physio just said to stay in bed, put ice on it and hope it goes away in a few days. Marco obeys, because he knows the alternative might make it worse. That doesn’t mean he isn’t bored, though.

 

His friends have abandoned him; Marcel is out doing something or the other and sending him silly selfies every half hour, and all his teammates are still in afternoon practice. The only thing that’s on TV at this hour is bad telenovelas and, somewhat bizarrely, reruns of Bayern München games, neither of which he has any desire to watch. Finally, he settles on an Oprah show rerun. It’s one he’s seen before, where Oprah randomly gives cars to audience members, but it makes him feel all warm and fuzzy inside, so he decides to leave it.

 

Half an hour later, his doorbell rings. He looks at the half-melted bag resting on his knee and the distance to the bedroom door and beyond, and just decides not to bother. Whoever it is probably has the key or knows where it is.

 

The door clicks open and shut. “Marco?” It’s Auba.

 

“You can take the living room TV, just leave the blender alone. Those things cost a fortune!” Marco calls back, smiling involuntary at the laugh he can hear through the open door.

 

He spares a concerned glance at the faded black boxers he’s wearing with a worn cotton shirt, but ultimately decides not to bother getting up to put on some other clothes. Auba’s seen him in worse and Marco has already gotten used to being beaten in style.

 

“Hey,” Auba leans on the doorway, impish smile in place. “You weren’t answering my texts.”

 

“So you decided breaking and entering was the way to go?” Marco doesn’t bother hiding his grin. On screen, the Oprah show has given way to a shitty action movie. “I don’t even know where my phone is.”

 

“I was worried. You could have fallen and broken your neck for all I know,” Auba is wearing a sweatshirt a few sizes too big for him, and the sleeves flop down to cover his knuckles. It’s a weird thing to notice, but Marco does.

 

“Nice to know you care.” Marco grins, reaching down to remove the icepack from where it’s melting all over his sheets.

 

“How’s that?” Auba turns serious, tipping his head to Marco’s knee.

 

“Just minor. Should be fine in a few days,” Marco shrugs.

 

“That’s good,” Auba suddenly perks up. “Oh, I brought take out. Knowing you, you probably haven’t eaten.”

 

He disappears through the doorway and a moment later Marco hears him rummaging through the kitchen drawer. His stomach takes it as his cue to growl and he realizes that he is in fact, hungry. He reaches down to adjust the pillow so it sits under his knee better. On screen the muscled protagonist throws a grenade at something that’s either a tank or a giant spider.

 

Auba comes in and bounces on the bed next to him. Marco reaches out to steady the wobbling containers, countering Auba’s sheepish grin with a deadpan stare.

 

Auba suddenly grimaces in pain. “Found your phone,” he says.

 

“Oh, thanks! Hope your ass hasn’t crushed it.” Marco takes the phone, sniggering at the offended look on Auba’s face. Sure enough, there are five texts from Auba and one from Kevin. Also, Marcel just sent him another selfie.

 

“Are you insulting my ass?”

 

“You have a great ass,” Marco says without thinking, scrolling through his instagram feed absentmindedly. Then his words catch up with him. “No, I mean not great! Just average! It’s fine! A fine ass! No, I mean, oh shit…”

 

Auba laughs so hard he almost falls on top of the food containers. Marco is sure he must look tomato red by now, and some part of him is just glad Auba is laughing instead of punching him.

 

He wonders when he started noticing Auba’s ass.

 

They stay in bed after they finish eating, watching some action movie on TV, the take-out containers pushed onto the floor by the bed. Marco’s attention wanders after a while, tracking the path of light through the half-covered window, listening to the ticking of the kitchen clock and the soft sounds Auba makes as he shifts. Marco finds that he likes him like this, soft and sleepy-eyed, almost vulnerable where he’s stretched out on Marco’s sheets. Eventually, his eyes catch on Auba’s hands, one of them folded up to rest on his chest, fingers half-heartedly thrumming out a beat. He impulsively reaches out to take it and ignores the surprised intake of breath to pull it close enough to examine.

 

Auba’s fingers are so short compared to his own, even if his palm is wide. Marco laces their fingers together experimentally and grins when he feels Auba squeeze back. He continues exploring, brushing the pads of his fingers over Auba’s knuckles, feeling the rough skin cracked by the wind. Auba barely remembers to bring his gloves to training, never mind anywhere else.

 

He doesn’t remember moving closer, but he must have, because when he looks up, their faces are barely centimeters apart and Auba’s eyes are all pupil. Auba brings his other hand up, runs his fingers through the short hairs on the back of Marco’s neck and he’s cheating, the bastard, he knows Marco is sensitive to that.

 

But before he can open his mouth to protest, Auba’s lips are covering his and that’s just…well, it’s pretty much perfect, actually.

 

Everything with Auba is easy, from scoring goals to making out. Marco can’t even find it in himself to be embarrassed over how quickly he’s moaning against Auba’s lips, even if he’s got a sneaking suspicion he’s being laughed at.

 

Marco reaches around to squeeze Auba’s ass and the snickers cut off with a gasp. He grins and gets his lip bitten in retaliation, but he refuses to move his hands.

 

Auba does have a really nice ass.

 

 

*

 

 

When Marco daydreamed of growing up as kid, it was always in some way connected to football. Playing the sport he loved for a club he loved, adored by the fans and respected for his skills. He’d also envisioned a girlfriend, someone pretty and slight, who’d play FIFA with him and make chicken soup like his mother. It was a great dream, something he’d clung onto in those nights when his whole body ached from training, muscles stretching, burning, and reshaping themselves under his skin into something stronger. Strong enough to take him where he wanted to be.

 

Marco watches from the couch as Auba gets his ass handed to him at FIFA by a beatifically smiling Nuri. Auba’s got his tongue out in concentration and he stops once in a while to curse in increasingly frustrated French. He’s not what Marco would describe as pretty, nor is he particularly slight. His cooking is frankly atrocious and Marco has banned him from the kitchen.

 

But then again, Auba isn’t his girlfriend. He’s not even a boyfriend. Just a friend he sometimes makes out with.

 

The game ends and Auba lets out a deep sigh, audible even under Nuri’s loud gloating. He slumps back to lean his head against Marco’s knee. Like it’s normal. Marco reaches out to tug on the short strands of brown hair, searching for where the last design was shaved in. Like it’s normal.

 

Auba hands him the controller, but doesn’t move from his position against Marco’s knee for the whole duration of the next game. Marco loses miserably. He’s usually better than this, even against self-proclaimed FIFA champion Nuri, but tonight he’s distracted.

 

“You still do that thing with your mouth,” Auba grins up at him, a flash of white teeth in the blue light of the TV and Marco remembers tasting the curve of it against his lips just last night.

 

Kevin chooses the moment to let out a particularly loud fart, causing a mad scramble of limbs and frantic curses. Marco takes an elbow to the ribs and accidentally kicks Auba in the back for good measure.

 

Ah, romance.

 

 

*

 

They watch the African Cup of Nations at Marco’s apartment. Kevin, Nuri and Sven stretch out across his couches and put their dirty feet everywhere. Marcel brings out all the snacks, even the ones Marco though he’d hidden, the filthy traitor. Mats almost misses the start of the match, bursts through the door in a flurry of movement and complaints about the traffic, then settles on the couch with his feet in Nuri’s lap.

 

Onscreen, Auba runs onto the pitch to join his teammates. The captain’s armband looks good on his forearm, like it belongs. Marco watches the other players huddle around him, and he speaks to them confidently. He looks good, very settled. He’s wearing the wrong yellow.

 

The game starts and they all cheer when Auba does some fancy footwork to get the ball.

 

Ninety minutes later, they’re all quiet.

 

It’s funny that Marco doesn’t remember ever seeing Auba cry, not even after an injury. But there are tears in his eyes now, as he answers questions in a voice hoarse from screaming, and Marco swallows past a lump in his throat and averts his eyes. He takes his phone out of his pocket, and opens up their last conversation. The monkey emoji he’d sent Auba for good luck blinks up at him, almost mockingly. Marco has no idea what to say, which isn’t that unusual. He usually doesn’t. He relies on Auba to understand him. In the end he settles on a simple ‘I’m sorry’. No emojis. It feels inadequate, but it’s the best he can come up with.

 

The others trickle out, talking quietly amongst themselves. They seem to know to leave him alone.

 

Auba doesn’t text back, which makes sense, because he’s probably being a good captain and consoling his teammates. Still, Marco stays up for as long as he can bear it, nodding off twice to the tune of infomercials before he finally moves to bed.

 

An hour later he wakes up disoriented, scrambling for the ringing phone. He doesn’t bother checking the caller ID.

 

“Hello,” he mutters into the phone, closing his eyes against the brightness of the screen.

 

“We lost,” Auba whispers, a crack in his voice that could just be from the static, but Marco knows probably isn’t.

 

“I know, I was watching,” Marco sits up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. The clock says it’s three in the morning.

 

“You were watching?” the words are barely audible and Marco wonders if Auba is sharing his room with someone else, imagines him laying in the dark and trying hard to be quiet.

 

“Yeah,” Marco says, just as quietly. “I’m sorry.”

 

Auba doesn’t say anything, but Marco can hear him breathing, too even, too measured. His ankle aches under the covers, a phantom reminder of his own disappointment.

 

He doesn’t know what makes him say it.

 

“Pierre…”

 

That’s all it takes. Auba makes a soft sound on the other end of the line that dissolves into wracking sobs. Marco rests his forehead on his knees, clenches his hand around the phone and tries to ignore the tears gathering in his eyes.

 

It hits him with a sudden clarity that he wants to be there, with Auba, wants to curl around his body and let it smother his sobs, but he can’t, because Auba is a thousand kilometers away. So he listens and keeps up a constant stream of soft meaningless words that Auba probably doesn’t even understand.

 

Eventually, Auba goes silent and his breathing evens out into a familiar rhythm. Marco listens for a few minutes and wonders briefly when he’d memorized the way Auba sounded when he fell asleep.

 

Marco wakes up in the morning to his alarm going off, the phone leaving a red imprint on his cheek. The line had disconnected during the night, but he’s got a text message waiting for him when he unlocks his phone.

 

_‘You roll the R too much’_

 

Marco grins to himself.

 

“Pierre.” It rolls over his tongue, echoes through the empty bedroom, new and exciting. He repeats it out loud, until it sits familiar on his tongue, repeats it until he begins to feel ridiculous and gets up to run the coffee machine.

 

 

*

 

 

Which brings us up to now.

 

Marco wakes up annoyed and unsettled. The coffee machine takes ages to work and he forgets to put on his socks when he gets out of bed, so stands in his kitchen with cold toes, frowning at the world.

 

He’s almost ready by the time Auba’s car pulls up in the driveway and Marco mumbles a good morning at him through the piece of toast in his mouth before darting into the bathroom for a few final touches to his hair. Auba’s had his own key for weeks now.

 

It still rankles that he has to be driven to and fro from training by his teammates like some sort of child, but Marco can’t deny it’s his own fault. Auba laughed for about an hour when he heard the news, but he’d also offered to call his personal lawyer and petted Marco’s hair until he stopped frowning.

 

“Have you taken your gloves?” Marco asks, as they attempt to wrestle his training bag next to Auba’s in the booth of the Porsche. It’s a great car, but it doesn’t have much in the way of space in the back.

 

“Uhhh…probably?” which makes it the fourth time in as many weeks that he’s forgotten even though everyone knows how cold his hands get. Marco sighs.

 

“I have a spare pair in the other pocket.”

 

“But they’ll be big on me!” Auba grumbles as they slide into their seats, sighing at the warmth. Marco rolls his eyes and turns up the radio.

 

He considers Auba’s hands as they drive. They tap the steering wheel in time with the beat, sliding against the plastic smoothly. Marco’s gloves are always too big on them, bunching up where Auba’s fingers are shorter and loose around the palm. Marco looks away before Auba catches him staring and watches the people of Dortmund go about their daily life. They look delighted when they see the golden Lamborghini drive pass and it makes Marco smile.

 

Something in him settles during the car ride, but the itch is back under his skin when they start warming up on the training pitch. It adds an extra edge to his tackles, a brutality to his kicks that forces Roman to shake out his wrists after every save.

 

Auba appears by his side during the drills and sticks close, as if sensing his mood. He’s loose limbed and laughs easily at the jokes Kevin tells. There’s no trace of the Auba from the phone call in him, no bags under his eyes or slump in his steps. He tries to steal the ball from under Marco’s feet, grinning competitively and Marco can feel an answering smile form on his lips.

 

He topples to the grass when Marco swipes the ball from under him too suddenly and rolls back into a handstand, grinning brightly and Marco is so in love with him.

 

Marco is in love with him.

 

Oh, shit.

 

“Hey, are you okay?” he hears Kevin ask and nods, absentmindedly, before bolting across the pitch to where the coach is giving out assignments. Auba calls out after him, but he pretends not to hear.

 

For the rest of practice he pushes his body to the brink. He probably shouldn’t be working this hard and from the corner of his eye he can see the physio shake his head in dismay. He pushes and pushes, but he can’t get rid of his thoughts.

 

He’s in love with Auba. With his teammate. How could he have possibly fucked up this badly?

 

He ends up sitting on the bench in the locker room, barely finding the energy to change his clothes. His hair falls limply over his eyes, but his hairgel is in Auba’s locker again, because it’s closer to the bathrooms, and he doesn’t feel like getting up to take it. He can see Auba start towards him, but Kevin stops him and they speak quietly for a few moments, before Auba shakes his head and picks up his bag, walking out with one last worried look.

 

Marco breathes a sigh of relief, physically sick at the thought of a long quiet ride home in a cramped car with Auba. He looks up when Kevin takes a seat next to him.

 

“I told him I’d drive you home,” Kevin says and Marco nods.

 

The locker room slowly empties around them. The new guy, Kampl, lingers at the door for a moment, shooting them a concerned look. Their eyes meet across the room and Marco suddenly feels hysterical. Has this other Kevin ever fallen in love with a teammate without realizing it? Probably not; he looks the type to marry his childhood sweetheart and have a disgustingly cute dog. His hair looks great though. Marco laments the loss of his hairgel, somewhere in the depths of Auba’s bag. It’s lost forever; there’s no way that he’s ever facing Auba after this.

 

In hindsight, that’s the thought that hurts the most.

 

Everything he has with Auba, the easy friendship and the comforting closeness, is now forever tainted by the fact that Marco can’t keep his emotions in check. It could have just stayed like that, easy and good, but now Marco’s had to ruin it.

 

“You’re such a drama queen,” Kevin says and Marco bristles at the laugher in his voice. He also realizes that he’s been talking out loud for the last few minutes.

 

“I’m not!”

 

“Yes, you are. You’re doing this all in the wrong order. It’s like getting cold feet on the day your honeymoon ends.”

 

Marco looks up at that, struck by a horrifying realization. His hairgel isn’t the only thing in Auba’s locker. His jacket is hooked on Auba’s hook instead of his own and Auba’s spare clothes are mixed with Marco’s in his locker. Auba has his spare cleats and Marco has the granola bars Auba likes so much tucked into the pocket of his bag. Auba is still wearing his gloves.

 

Oh god, how long has he been married to Auba without realizing it?

 

“A few months probably,” Kevin shrugs. “You’ve been eye-fucking since the first day though. You saw his shoes and I swear I thought you were gonna cream yourself.”

 

Marco groans and buries his head in his hands. This is probably the most embarrassed he’s ever been in his life. Kevin laughs and clicks a few keys on his phone.

 

“Are you texting your girlfriend?!” Marco demands.

 

“Yep,” Kevin says, hauling Marco up by the armpit. “I told her I’d be late because you’re having an existential crisis.”

 

Marco groans again, but follows obediently. They’re almost out the door when a thought occurs to him.

 

“Wait, who else knows about this?”

 

“Everyone, pretty much,” Kevin says, unlocking his car. “I think even the technical staff is betting on when you’d realize it. Kloppo put in a fiver.”

 

“Kloppo?!” Marco slams his head really hard on the roof of Kevin’s car. It hurts, but he does it again for good measure.

 

“Watch the paintjob,” Kevin says, starting the engine. He doesn’t even wait for Marco to fasten his seatbelt, the bastard. Auba always waits, because he knows how much Marco hates the beeping noise of the car.

 

“How do you even know that?”

 

“I collected the bets,” Kevin says, like he’s talking about the weather and not a gross invasion of Marco’s privacy.

 

“You’re a terrible friend,” Marco frowns.

 

“Probably,” Kevin shrugs. “It keeps you from falling in love with me.”

 

“I’m not in love with Auba,” Marco says sullenly and Kevin snorts. Marco crosses his arms and curls up against the car window.

 

The rest of the ride passes in silence. Kevin turns into Marco’s driveway and cuts the engine.

 

“Wait a second,” Kevin says quietly when Marco starts fussing with his jacket. “What are you going to do now?”

 

“I don’t know! Hide probably.” Marco runs a hand through his hand, stomach churning.

 

“What about Auba?”

 

“Stop talking to him, I guess,” Marco laughs bitterly. “Avoid him at training and ignore when he calls. It’s the only way to stop this. You’ll pair up with me during training, right?”

 

“No, Marco, I really won’t,” Kevin’s voice is cold enough to make Marco recoil in surprise. “I can’t believe you’d do that to Auba. What, it was fine when he was a dirty little secret, but now you’re just going to leave him?”

 

“I-”Marco starts, but Kevin cuts him off.

 

“I can’t believe it! He’s obviously completely in love with you and this is how you treat him?” Kevin is winding up steam now, completely missing Marco’s slack-jawed surprise.

“I can’t believe me and the guys thought you were together, and all this time you’ve been leading him on! I’m pretty sure Kehli already has a wedding speech written!” Kevin slams his hands against the steering wheel, causing the horn to blare. “I can’t believe you Marco…Marco? Hey, are you okay?”

 

“Auba’s in love with me?!” Marco finally manages to screech out and Kevin winces at the high pitch. “How the fuck was I supposed to know that?”

 

“Well, he practically crawls into your lap every time you sit down, I would imagine you’d get a clue somewhere along the line!” Kevin yells back, and then tries very hard to regulate his voice, probably because he realizes that Marco is genuinely freaking out. “You really didn’t know?”

 

“No, Kevin, I didn’t, okay, nobody told me,” Marco runs his hands through his hair and tugs on it sharply. Auba is in love with him. The sickness in his stomach starts mixing with butterflies. It’s ridiculous.

 

“Oh,” Kevin frowns. “So you weren’t just leading him on?”

 

“No, it’s just that,” Marco takes a deep breath and plunges on, “sometimes we make out.”

 

“Oh, gross, dude. I wasn’t asking for details.” Kevin makes a disgusted face and Marco doesn’t know if he wants to laugh or cry.

 

“You lead a betting pool on me having a relationship with Auba and then I mention makeouts and you get grossed out? Hell no, you’re listening to all the gory details now.” Watching Kevin make faces is weirdly comforting, even if Marco still wants to punch him in the face.

 

“Fine, makeouts. And then what?”

 

“Nothing,” Marco shakes his head. “We didn’t talk about it.”

 

“Okay, then you need to talk about it,” Kevin’s phone chirps in his pocket. “Now, please let me go home, dinner is waiting and I’m really hungry.”

 

Marco can’t help it; he laughs, feeling somehow lighter despite nothing resolving itself.

 

“Fine, fine, leave your friend in need,” Marco collects his jacket and gets out of the car, pulling his bag of the backseat. “I’ll think about it.”

 

“Don’t just think. Call Auba or something, and talk. Also, can you please announce it next week? Mats has a bet on today and I really want to screw him over.”

 

Marco waves him off, walking up the front steps and through the door. As soon as it slams shut behind him, he collapses in a heap onto the little bench he has in the hallway. His foot hits a pair of Nike Wingdings. Auba’s. That’s his breaking point.

 

About half an hour later he surfaces from his frantic thoughts. It’s almost nine in the evening and he hasn’t solved a thing, but there’s something he’s sure of: he needs to see Auba as soon as possible.

 

Once again, the no-car situation complicates things. He needs to get to Auba’s house as soon as possible, which means right now, but he has no one to take him. Kevin is probably eating dinner right now, so he won’t be answering his phone for at least an hour and Marco could call Sven, but there are few things less romantic than having your teammate drive you to your sweetheart’s house.

 

Half-delirious with relief at having finally made a decision, Marco remembers that there’s a bus stop near enough to walk to. There’s bound to be a bus line to Auba’s neighborhood, right?

 

And this is how Marco Reus finds himself on a public bus in Dortmund at 10 pm on a Thursday evening, trying to find a French dictionary on his phone. The jacket and hoodie he’s wearing is a reasonable enough disguise and nobody recognizes him in the crowded bus. The problems start when the bus starts emptying as it nears its last stop. An older man stumbles onto the bus, obviously after a drink too many and as soon as his eyes meet Marco’s, his face lights up.

 

“Reus!” he calls out, causing half the bus to turn around and whisper amongst themselves. “Marco Reus, on my bus! Bad luck on the last game, eh, boy? You’ll get there! I’ve believed in this team for forty years and I won’t stop now.”

 

The man situates himself on the seats in front of Marco, leaning uncomfortably near over the headrest. Marco shrinks away a little at the smell of alcohol, but mostly he’s just fascinated. The stranger seems to have a wealth of anecdotes of their shared club and he’s full of the sort of optimism that Marco appreciates. He also doesn’t seem to need an audience at all. In fact, Marco is wondering if he’s even aware that Marco is there. Then, the intercom finally calls his station. He gets up, wobbling a bit as the bus lurches. He really isn’t used to public buses anymore.

 

“Where are you going, boy?” The man asks, not unkindly and Marco doesn’t know what makes him say it, but he opens him mouth to say goodbye and “I’m going to tell someone I love them,” flies out.

 

The man nods thoughtfully and wishes him good luck. Marco makes his way to the door and is about to step out, when the man yells after him.

 

“Is it that Aubameyang boy?” Marco stumbles. “You better treat him right! Hell of a pair of legs on that kid.”

 

The door closes behind him, leaving him staring incredulously after the bus as it drives away. Seriously, did everyone know??

 

Auba’s house is a good ten minute walk away from the bus stop and Marco starts regretting leaving his gloves and scarf at home. As it is, he’s only wearing his leather jacket and a bright yellow BVB hoodie that keeps peeking from under his sleeves. It’s cold in Dortmund, winter still gripping the city, even with no snow on the roads.

 

Finally, he sees a familiar looking house and steps a little quicker, excitement and cold flushing his cheeks. He stops in front of it to look up, counts the lit up windows. The kitchen and living room are yellow, but the upper level is dark. He has no way of telling if Auba’s in his bedroom, because it’s on the other side of the house and it feels weird to run around just to check. Auba has a fence and an alarm system, the code to which Marco has already memorized. He knows under which decorative rock Auba stores his spare key. Still, he doesn’t type in the code, doesn’t even ring the doorbell.

 

They picked this house together, he and Auba. Well, mostly Auba really, but Marco tagged along to hold Auba’s measuring tape and to make awkward small talk with the real estate lady, while Auba searched the bathrooms top to bottom. He’d helped Auba buy furniture for it and chose the colors of the walls. He’d practically forced him to buy the current couch by laying on it in the middle on the store and moaning about how comfortable it was. There are pieces of him scattered all over Auba’s house, just like Auba has settled in his apartment, their lives irrevocably twined around each other’s. Marco can’t imagine life in Dortmund without Auba and it’s the knowledge that he’s risking that, risking that closeness, which has him lingering at the front gate, sneakers scuffing on the dirty pavement.

 

His phone vibrates in his pocket.

_‘are you coming in?’_ It’s Auba.

_‘haven’t decided yet’_ Marco texts back. His fingers shake where they grip his phone.

_‘you look cold’_ He looks up and catches a curtain rustling in the master bathroom, the light of the hallway barely shining through.

_‘you’re watching me? Stalker.’_

_‘you’re the one standing on my front porch in the middle of the night.’_

Marco has to laugh. It’s at least a little bit ridiculous. He’s Marco Reus, a professional footballer, standing in the cold outside of a teammate’s house, after taking the public bus to get there. He’s got a sudden impulse to pull out a flower from the neighbor’s flower bed, make it even more like a coming-of-age movie.

 

Except for how no flowers are growing, because it’s really cold. His knee aches. He’s 24 and way too old for this crap.

_‘I’m coming in.’_

 

He types in the code on the fence door and walks in, then up the front steps.

 

The front door key is in under the second decorative rock on the right. He rings the doorbell instead.

 

Auba opens the door, shivering in his thin cotton T-shirt and sweatpants. They’re probably Marco’s, judging by the yellow 11 on the edge. His hair is swept back with a hairband and he’s squinting slightly at the bright porch lights.

 

He looks radiant, and Marco loves him so much it hurts. He can’t hold himself back from kissing him, and they half-walk, half-stumble into the hallway, the door crashing closed behind them.

 

“You’re freezing,” Auba says against his lips and Marco mutters “Sorry, sorry,” but sticks his hands under his shirt anyway.

 

The nerves don’t come back until later, when they’re settled on the couch under a nest of blankets, wearing a lot less clothing. Auba reaches up to smooth down Marco’s hair and Marco turns his head to press a quick kiss against his palm.

 

“You could have just called for me to pick you up,” Auba says, separating the blond strands with his fingers. “How did you even get here?”

 

“I took the bus.”

 

“You what?” Auba shakes his head. “And you didn’t get mobbed?”

 

“I needed to tell you something,” and just like that, Marco forgets every single French word he’d tried to look up on the bus.

 

“What was so important?”

 

“I…don’t know how to say it in French.”

 

“But you don’t speak any French,” Auba laughs incredulously.

 

“And you don’t speak any German!”Marco frowns and Auba snorts.

 

“I speak a little German by now. Come on, what is it?”

 

“Ich liebe dich,” Marco says quietly. “Do you know what that means?”

 

“Je t’aime,” Auba says. “Do you mean that?”

 

“Je t’aime,” Marco tries to wrap his tongue around the unfamiliar syllables and he knows he’s failed by the way Auba starts grinning. “I mean it, Pierre.”

 

“Ich liebe dich, then,” and it sounds so weird in Auba’s accent, but so great too, like it’s something special just for Marco.

 

He kisses Auba again, and it’s slow and lingering, and thankfully the couch really is incredibly comfortable.

 

They don’t get up for a while.

 

 

*

 

 

“I can’t believe Kevin was right.”

“Marco, can we please not talk about Kevin while I have a hand down your pants?”

“Oh, right, okay.”

 

*

 

Kampl wins the betting pool.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr](http://neyvenger.tumblr.com/), I cry about my Pierreus headcanons a lot.
> 
> Notes:  
> \- all of Auba's shoes are made up  
> \- Marcel is Marcel Fornell, one of Marco's best friends, except for when he's Marcel Schmelzer, who plays for BVB and steals Marco's snacks  
> \- other players mentioned are: Mats Hummels (who probably does take long showers), Eric Durm (who doesn't have a movie star girlfriend), Nuri Sahin, Kevin Grosskreutz (who is the best friend on the planet), Sven Bender, Kevin Kampl (who does have great hair) and Jürgen Klopp or Kloppo  
> \- also mentioned is Mario Götze, unfortunately
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it! Kudos are appreciated, comments are loved.


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